Page 61 of Stealing Sophie
“Good night,” he murmured.
“I apologize for what I—thought you—”
He huffed. “Go to sleep, Sophie lass.”
In that instant, hearing that soft, patient reply, hearing acceptance, forgiveness, and affection, she felt different. Felt her heart turn within her, open, as something flooded through her. Sympathy, relief, something more. She cared what he thought. She wanted his affection, his acceptance. His forgiveness. Knowing him only briefly, she felt as if she understood him in an intimate, intuitive way as if she had known him a very long while.
On the surface, all she knew was that he was a rogue and a thief, that he hid in a ruined castle. That he kept things he treasured, called no place home, and held his secrets close. That he valued home and family and honor. That his friends respected and loved him, that his dogs adored him. That when he gave his word, he kept it no matter what it required. He was intelligent, confident, educated. And though he preferred to seem gruff and unfeeling, he was not. A good heart, Mary Murray had said.
He could have done otherwise, but had not disgraced or abused her, showing her kindness and patience, even a taste of real passion.
Snuggling down, she punched the plump pillows in their linen cases. After a moment, she sat up, picked up a pillow, and flung it out of the bed. She heard Connor’s surprised grunt.
“Always the lady, Mrs. MacPherson,” he murmured.
She lay back and smiled in the darkness. Closing her eyes, she felt safe, truly so, with him nearby. Hearing him sigh, shift, punch the pillow, she turned too in the bed. She could not settle to sleep, so keenly aware of every sound and movement he made.
Finally, she rolled over. “Connor MacPherson.”
“Aye.”
“Come into the bed.”
“That is not the thing to do,” he said, “if you want to annul this marriage.”
“Tcha,” she said, in perfect mimic. Lifting to an elbow, she peered at him. “Did I say you were to touch me? You are a tired man, and I am weary too. Come into the bed, Mr. MacPherson, so we can both sleep.”
Silence. In the shadows, she saw him bend an arm over his eyes.
“I heard some ghostly music earlier,” she said, “and I would be frightened if it came again. Beautiful, but so sad. Come off the cold floor.”
More silence. Then he rolled and came to his feet. Moments later, his weight pressed down the mattress. Sliding over to make room, she opened the covers for him.
He lay beside her, but did so atop the coverlet, on his back, feet crossed, arms folded. Sophie turned to her side, regarding him in the shadows.
“You do not look comfortable,” she whispered.
“It is better than the floor, I admit.”
She leaned close, feeling his tension and reserve, yet drawn to him like iron to a magnet. “Are you not cold?”
“I have my plaid.”
“It is chill in this room,” she ventured, shifting closer.
He opened his arm, silently inviting her close. She settled against him, her head on his shoulder. He felt warm, strong, comforting, his arm gently encircling her, hand barely touching her back. She moved her head, felt his whiskers rasp along her brow.
Though she closed her eyes, she could not rest now either, aware of the beat of her heart, a pulse of excitement throughout her body. Resting her palm on his chest, she could feel the thump of his heart, strong as her own. “Connor—”
“Hush you.” Fingers touched her jaw, tipped her face toward him. “Just hush.”
“I cannot sleep,” she whispered.
“Is it so?” And then he was kissing her, slowly and gently, pulling tenderly at her lip. The kiss seared through her like lightning.
Exhaling, he turned to pull her closer, kissing her again, still tentatively—an asking kiss, waiting for an answer. She sighed out, a sound of allowance, and his hand stroked along her shoulder, tracing down, down, fingers warm through her thin shift. She sighed again, savoring the feel of his hands on her, his arms, his body strong and firm and close, equally comforting and exciting. Cupping her cheek, his fingers then brushed through her hair as his lips kneaded hers, one kiss following the next. Enveloped in his arms, she felt cherished—he was careful, slowly moving. She felt a sense that he held back, though she felt he wanted her as she wanted him, fierce and powerful and building between them, heat and desire.
Moving toward him, she returned kisses with new fervor, growing boldness. Tonight no whisky fired her courage—she needed none, wanting this, inviting this, the craving deep and indescribable. Yet for a moment, she paused, gasped a little against his lips—would this stolen, impromptu marriage stay true, would it last? Should this continue—yet she desperately wanted to know more of him, of passion, of love, her desire for adventure in her life expanding now, into desire—with him.
